Sincerities
by xXxJazzy B. RealxXx
Summary: Tongue in cheek, Amy tried to picture his posture without turning around. Was it Monday's crossed arms, or Tuesday-through-Friday's arrogant smirk? Or maybe―just maybe, it was Sunday's sincere eyes. - /One-shot/


**"Sincerities,"**

_By ~ xXxJazzy B. RealxXx_

* * *

"Amy."

She wanted to evacuate her household through the kitchen window and haul ass.

...But now that he was in the same room with her after having riffled through her closet hangers, she might as well say something ignorant:

"I finished tailoring your uniform." _'He already saw it.'_ "I hope it'll do, since I'm not as good a tailor as Vanilla is, but this side-job pays well." _'He already knows that.'_

Despite all the effort she put into her small talk, her guest didn't even grunt, which―strange as it may be to those who compared him to something stereotypical―wouldn't have been his response anyway. The hedgehog standing behind her always had something to say, antagonistically or not. She prayed to _Christ, Buddha, Allah (1), Zarathustra (2), Edgar Allan Poe (3)_ or whomever that he wouldn't give her an attitude today for possibly ruining his attire. She preferred his impersonal, empty way of being "polite" much more. Ultimately, sodium hydroxide was supposed to get on well with hydrochloric acid; if mixed, they'd have a neutralized relationship, so she hoped what she learned in _Chemistry _class would apply to their interaction, too.

"I know." _'See?_' "On the contrary, your assistance was more convenient because of this...short _notice_."

He knew she had the talents of a comely wife when it came to these things, so he'd come to reap the benefits of those talents instead of seeking out Rouge. According to what he told her, the white bat somehow managed to set his last uniform on fire with a clothing iron. It was the first time he turned a negative situation into a joking remark when both realized neither of them could picture Rouge's character allowing her to iron ties, sew uniforms, hang up laundry on a linen line, or bake pies with an apron. She was quick to laugh at it; he was quick to smirk at it. He was perhaps even quicker to return to his default expression when she smiled at him.

Tongue in cheek, Amy tried to picture his current pose without turning around. Was it Monday's crossed arms, or Tuesday-through-Friday's arrogant smirk? Or maybe―just maybe, it was Sunday's sincere eyes.

_'Today's Saturday, so I don't know what he looks like on Saturdays...'_

"Additionally..." _'Eh?'_ "The uniform is..._befitting_ enough." _'Ah.'_

His vocabulary was short of its regular glib speech and serpent tongue, so she abandoned her stove to dissect him. The sight she received was framable; she could probably bear a week of tailoring his uniforms so long as she had his blank, humiliated face to straw her eyes on. His look of discombobulation was replaced with the look of someone who'd walked out of the dry cleaners with a bleached fur coat. He spread his arms out—almost shyly, if she dare giggle about it—but his gesture wasn't cue for, _"Hold me because I'm as isolated by life as you are, unwillingly or not."_

"...?" Posing like a scare-crow, he looked to her for an opinion.

Fashion wasn't his strong point, it was a woman's, and if there had been just a little more pucker to his lips, it could've passed for an angry pout.

_'...Shadow,'_ Amy snorted like a piglet. _'You look like a sailor.'_"You look like a G.U.N. agent. Sophisticated, top ranked, and dressed to impress! I'm sure you'll be ready to meet the President and Commander in that for your very first conference." She felt she should keep her half-lie simple, and so, she lumped her emotions into unconvincing sentences.

His face was somewhere between a frown and a crooked smile, so his dimpled foreheard and dimpled _cheeks _made the expression look laughable to her. He was obviously torn about the compliment because he was dressed in a costume he could care less about, and yet, the uniform suited his image so well that it was distressing.

Ten seconds ago, she could've sworn that he was on the other side of the kitchen—ten seconds later, he was less than a foot away from her, holding his glove out for a handshake with a lack of concern for her personal space. Cornered against the kitchen counter, she eyed his paw of a hand and the stiff..._something_ on his face. While her I.Q. was sharper than her quills, she estimated that the stiff _something_ was supposed to be a smile―_or something._

Shadow the Hedgehog withdrew his fingers in a way that made her think he'd come down with a curious flu called, "insecurity" as he attempted to clear its symptoms out of his throat, "Thank you, for your..."

"...Help?"

Better word.

"Assistance," they both corrected; the jinx acknowledged by their meaningless smiles.

If the Ultimate Life-form was trying to rehearse his formalities on her before he met with _Mr. President_, then he was failing.

So, Amy Rose took his hand in both of hers and made the situation friendlier. "What are friends for?"

And he gave her what she wanted: Sunday's sincere eyes.

_'You don't have to be formal when you can be yourself, silly.'_

* * *

**(1) ****Allah**: ___Arabic word for "God" in the context of Islam._

**(2) ****Zarathustra**: ___ancient Iranian prophet and founder of a religion known as Zoroastrianism._

**(3) ****Edgar Allan Poe**: ___American writer of macabre during the Romantic Movement._**_  
_**


End file.
